


Unexpected

by webley bulldog (fanficsofclare)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficsofclare/pseuds/webley%20bulldog
Summary: Now that Harry James Potter was no longer the Chosen One, he realised that he had been lying to himself for a long time. In between managing his friendships, juggling a hostile work environment, and trying not to fall for a stranger, he might just discover who he truly is.CONTENT WARNINGS:descriptions of violenceuncensored homophobic languagedescriptions of sexual content
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 2





	1. Before

It is entirely possible, that when one has a certain destiny, or a path they must follow in life, that person does not always know who they truly are. And when said destiny is fulfilled, the chosen one can finally be themselves.

For Harry James Potter, being his true self meant excessive drinking. If he were being honest with himself, the alcohol was only a barrier between him and his true true self, which he hid away like a dark secret. But Harry rarely allowed himself to be wholeheartedly honest with anyone, let alone himself.

That is why, when he ended things with Ginny Weasley, barely a year since they wed, he spewed lies about needing space to find himself. Oh, he had found himself alright, he just wasn’t particularly fond of where that was. So, he continued to look for answers at the bottom of a bottle of muggle rum.

To any outsider, Harry was a functional adult wizard, with a well-respected job in the Ministry, with a beautiful wife who he would no doubt have multiple beautiful children with. He excelled in his work, shutting down the last of Voldemort’s operations and sniffing out the remaining death eaters who crawled the streets expectant of his return. He rather enjoyed the chase, the thrill of the unknowing, whether he would make it home alive that night.

Home, while parted from Ginny, was a ridiculously small bedsit in Stockwell, which gave him access to not only the Northern Line but also the Victoria Line (as the estate agent had put it). He didn’t have much muggle money, so it had to do. And it was perfectly easy to ignore the size and smell of the space when all one does is sleep there. Especially when that sleep is aided by several alcoholic beverages.

Ginny continued to play the role of adoring wife, and Harry did the same for her. Quidditch Functions and Ministry Balls alike found them arm in arm, smiling sweetly. Harry would behave, steering clear of any drink that had been near the firewhiskey. Even Ron and Hermione weren’t told of their parting, but that didn’t mean the pair hadn’t noticed a difference in their relationship. They kept this knowledge to themselves.

Despite the throngs of women who would willing fall at his feet, Harry had only ever been intimate with Ginny. He was curious to explore others. So the very second he could, he did. He had discovered some very interesting spells to alter his appearance, which he used many a night to hide his identity, getting lost in the embrace of someone new. Club bathrooms, taxi backseats, alleyways, and even once a muggle hot tub. It was passionate, it was wrong, it was shot after shot. Entire nights lost from his memory, which was really for the better, not knowing what remembering would have done to him. Shame. Guilt. Forgetting allowed him to continue his charade with Ginny, who didn’t know for she didn’t ask. Chances were she was out doing the very same.

That is, until the one-time Ginny allowed herself to love again, as herself, the blasted Rita Skeeta caught her ‘lovers embrace’ with Herbology Professor Neville Longbottom. It made front page, perfectly placed next to images of Harry at a muggle bar ‘drowning his sorrows’. News of their not so amicable split travelled fast, nearly as fast as the owls to his door carrying confessions of passion. As well as one notable letter of divorce, already signed with Ginny Weasley along the dotted line.

The next day, a Tuesday in March no less, was the beginning of the rest of his life.


	2. An Unwanted Task

“You know I hate to do this to you Harry. Especially…” he looked Harry up and down cursively, “especially with everything going on. But I really have no other option. You’re our best Auror, and he’s wild and unpredictable. No one else could handle him.”

Harry stood from his chair so fast it toppled over behind him, making a bang as it hit the cold marble floor. Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted, voice thick with venom. “This is some sort of sick fucking joke, Dean. I’ve given my entire life to this job, and you’re saddling me with him. Of all people. You saw what he’s capable of, you know how he hates me. He’ll kill me the first chance he gets. You’re a fucking idiot, you don’t deserve your title.” Harry spat at his feet, his face red with the strain. “Is this because of Ginny? Are you punishing me? You still love her don’t you, you’re sick-

Dean, Head Auror, cut him off, remaining in his large cushioned chair. “Watch your tongue Harry. Just because they offered my role to you first does not make you my superior. I have the power to fire you on the spot. So stay silent or start packing.” He glanced down at the ground where the glob of spit sat. “You’ve become rather disrespectful as of late.” Then he looked deep into Harry’s eyes, his demeanour softening. “Have you been drinking this morning?”

The room was large, the floors and walls a dark black with silver details. In between him and Dean was a regal oak desk, littered with parchment and inkwells. Past Head Aurors covered the walls, their portraits looking down at them, with soured faces. It always reminded Harry of the Slytherin Common Room. Today the room was spinning in the corners of his vision.

Harry stepped backwards in defence, lowering his gaze. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Dean stood, walked to his office door, and motioned for it to open, the handle resting in his palm. He gestured for Harry to leave.

“Why don’t you take the day off and we’ll try this talk again tomorrow?” He smiled curtly.

Harry walked out; shoulders hunched.

“Oh and Harry.”

Harry looked over his shoulder.

“Give him a chance. One week.”

Harry faced ahead without a response and disappeared down the corridor.


	3. Time Off

Harry did not return the next day, nor did he plan to return that week, sending an owl with his less than heartfelt apologies. He wasn’t missing much, he justified to himself, he was only meant to be catching up on paperwork. What harm could a few days off do him? God knows he needed time to himself, especially with who was awaiting him when he did return to work. He was grateful to be tucked away in his small flat, where the likes of Rita Skeeta wouldn’t find him.

To say he was upset about the divorce would be too easy. Harry was rather unsure of what to feel. Relief? It was a weight off his shoulders knowing that he didn’t have to pretend anymore, each kiss was more difficult than the last. Of course, he was sad, for he did genuinely love her at one point, but he hadn’t realised that love came in many forms. She was practically his sister when he thought about it, and that’s how he loved her. Like family. Yet he had decided to marry her and was now staring down at the parchment that would separate them, for good. All he had to do was sign…. Then he would be free to be… well to be himself. Whatever that actually meant.

But, for some unknown reason, he just could not put his quill to parchment. It felt like giving up, like he hadn’t fought hard enough to make it work. There was no way they could fix things, but he was reluctant to let her go. Separating…. It meant uncertainty, the great unknown. Having a wife was a safety net, to him. He didn’t have to try, wasn’t interested in being impressed. Having that ring around his finger kept the hoards at bay. Now he was available, things would change. The press would get worse, following his bachelor lifestyle at every step. They’d be there, every date, every kiss, every late-night rendezvous. And there was of course the other problem. The actual reason he couldn’t stay married. His unsuspected shame. Incredibly selfish, but it was understandable. After being with Ginny for 10 years, he was afraid to step away.

Harry took a deep breath and pushed the parchment to the side, for a later day, replacing it with a large bottle of whatever was closest. He unscrewed the cap and began to drink.

-

The next morning, the taste of rum lingered on his tongue, mixed with the foul remnants of Tequila. Another night out, memory hazy. Blindly, he patted the sheets all around feeling for his glasses. His fingertips felt something large and bony. He traced the shape of a long-toned leg, which connected to a chiselled torso. Harry gasped, jumping backwards, falling out of his bed with a thump. He had never brought someone back home. He clutched at his face, recognising the shape of his own nose. He leapt up and ran to his mirror, stared at his hazy reflection. Not even the powerful Harry Potter could cast a lasting appearance spell. Still without spectacles, he fumbled around the room quietly trying to find his clothes. He glanced at the sleeping form, making out pale skin, a mop of blonde hair, and not much else. Finally, he had his jeans and a top, which he pulled on quickly. In the pocket, his wand, which he silently used to summon his glasses, which flew at him from the table. Then, he grabbed a muggle pen and paper to write a note, before dashing out the door and into the first coffee shop he saw.

**_Had to go to work. Let yourself out._ **

Hiding his face behind a large Americano, Harry berated himself for being so careless. What would he have done if the muggle had woken up to a completely different person to whom they went to bed with? Or worse, if one of the Daily Prophet’s minions sees them leave after him? He sunk down into his chair, wishing for it to swallow him. The barista raised her eyebrows at him, rather used to him by now, in a _Are_ _You Okay?_ Fashion. He smiled in response after catching her eye and rolled his eyes as if to say _All good, life is weird._ She seemed happy with the response and turned back to the machine. He sank lower.

The expert in espionage he was, Harry picked out the perfect window spot where he could watch his flat from. He could see his front door, and in through a small window. He watched, head turned in his slumped position, as the silhouette of mystery lover rose from the bed, stretching their long elegant arms above their head. Mesmerised as the stranger found their clothes and dressed, before disappearing from view of the window, he waited with bated breath, for them to step out his front door so he could get a decent look at them.

“Excuse me.” A deep voice shook him from his trance, and he sat up straight in his chair, startled. He looked up at the man in front of him. He had dark skin and patterns cut into his hair, with deep brown eyes, that glistened. The pure white shirt he was wearing was almost too small for him, his chest and arms trying to burst out of it. The man gestured to the seat beside him. “Do you mind?” The man smiled, lighting his up eyes even more so.

“No, of course. Feel free.” Harry nodded, following the movement of his arms under the shirt sleeves as he lifted the chair and walked to his table, where he sat with a woman and child. He blinked and shook his head, blush filling his cheeks, turning his focus back to the flat. Just in time to see the stranger close the door behind them. He squinted, trying to make out the facial features but he was just too far. He watched as they crossed the street and turn the corner out of his view.

He let out a sigh, finished his coffee, and stood. At the counter, he took out a £5 note and slid it across, nodded in thanks. He slipped out the door and dashed across the street, traffic stopped at a red light, and hurriedly approached his flat. He jammed in the key and swung the door open.

The bed sheets had been made and the pillows ruffled into place. The shirt Harry had worn the night before was pressed and neatly folded in a tight square on the bed. He stepped closer, taking a deep breath. Flowers. He picked up the shirt, which was soft as if it had been professionally cleaned. Letting it unfold in his hands, it was ironed perfectly. He drew it to his face and breathed in the smell. He turned from the bed to see the rest of the space had similar treatment. Glancing at his kitchenette, he found the dishes were clean and stacked. All his glasses on their shelf, the bottle from last night had been stopped. The table, once messy, had been organised. Wincing, he saw that the divorce papers had been straightened. Next to them, was the note Harry had left. Dropping the shirt, he grabbed the paper and brought it closer to his face. It had new writing underneath along with several numbers, in a sweet looping script.

**_I had fun, call me_ **

**_044714613356_ **

**_-_ **

Harry had bought a mobile when Hermione insisted the second time, saying she wanted a way to talk to him without magical interference. She would call him at strange hours, for she knew he’d be awake, to talk. Her and Ron, well as perfect as they were for each other, had many disagreements. Ron was keen to start a family, have lots of children like his own parents. Whereas Hermione wanted to wait, get to the top of her field, and then have one or two children when she was secure in her roles. Something like that, finding a compromise that would make both happy was not an easy task. 

Hermione always had several projects on the go at once. Her second non-profit organisation had just started up, something about helping house elves or Greyback victims or half giants. Whatever its cause, it was sure to be a good one. Whenever she had time, and she always had time, she consulted with the Ministry for various departments. She had even joined Ron and Harry on a few raids before Ron had retired. Ron had grown tired of the action, it seemed. After only being in the field for 4 years, he retired and went to help George run his franchise of Joke shops. Hermione even helped them set up a few muggle locations, where they raked in thousands of pounds, and only had a few magical incidents. It was wonderful for Ron, but it made working just that little bit lonelier for Harry.

Harry liked his calls with Hermione, even those at 4 am. Hearing that his perfect friends were having issues distracted him from his own. And he appreciated that Hermione trusted him and wanted his thoughts on the matters. So, after countless times entering the strange number and deleting it, he called Hermione.

“Harry! I was just thinking of you. How are you? Are you okay? Do you want to come over for dinner? She won’t be here” Hermione rushed her over words the second it stopped ringing. “Can I do anything for you? Why did you call?”

He took a quick sharp breath in. “Hey Hermione. Yeah I’m okay. Dinner would be nice, yeah.” He nodded as if she could see him. “I actually.... well... I sort of met someone... and I was thinking of calling them.... and I couldn’t. So I called you. Because you’re you.”

“Oh!” Hermione’s surprised was clear in her voice. He could hear the cogs in her brain work as she carefully chose her next words. “Are they nice? Where did you meet them?”

Harry glanced at the pillow where they had been, debating how much he should say. “Well.... it’s a bit complicated.” He sighed. “Who knows if they really fancy me.”

She understood instantly. Her voice grew quiet, as if she might be overheard. “Again, Harry? You know one of these days your spells won’t be enough and you’ll be recognised by the wrong person.”

“I know. I just.... apparently can’t help myself when I drink.”

“We’ll talk more later.” Her voice moved away from the phone as if she were to hang up.

“Okay. Oh, Hermione?”

“Yes, Harry.” Louder this time.

“Ron. Does he know that I’m.. you know? He’s not... upset with me is he.”

Hermione sighed. “I wouldn’t tell him anything without your consent, Harry. He knows you and Ginny hadn’t been together for a while, since before the press. He doesn’t understand, but he’s not blaming anyone. You know, he’s become quite emotionally intelligent.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

Click.

-

“Harry!” Ron opened the door with a beaming smile. “Good to see you mate! Come in.” He stepped to the side to allow him to enter, closing the door after. He whisked them down the hallway into the dining room and conjuring two glasses filled with beer.

“This muggle ale. Brilliant isn’t it.” He took a long sip, foam sticking to his lips. “It’s that bluedog stuff you like.”

“Brewdog.” Harry corrected, drinking from his own glass. “Thank you, Ron. Where’s Hermione?” He glanced around.

“In the kitchen. She wanted to make the food from scratch, you know. Magic free. Thought you’d appreciate it. And she said not to bother her until it was ready.”

They sipped their drinks in silence for a while, the sound of pots and crockery moving around from the kitchen. The silence became thick, and uneasy.

“So. Listen, about Ginny-“ Harry started but couldn’t finish.

“Mate. I get it. Well... I don’t completely get it. But it’s fine. You don’t have to explain. Things just don’t work out sometimes. And Neville... well he’s always made her happy. It’s not like you broke her heart and stomped on it.” Ron shrugged uncomfortably. “People fall out of love. It happens.”

Harry eyed him over the rim of his glass before taking a large gulp, swallowing it quickly. “And... Hermione. Everything okay?”

Ron’s eyes shifted to the door, half expecting her to walk in at the very moment. He seemed to relax when she didn’t. “Well you know I want kids. Lots of them. But.... she’s not so keen. I’m not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the raising them she’s afraid of. It’s hard to talk about.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t think she’s afraid of anything.” Harry chuckled. “She’s just busy.”

“Busy. Yeah.”

As if on cue, Hermione entered the room. She was holding two plates, a third floating behind her. She placed them on the table and motioned for the boys to sit.

“Don’t worry, this is only the starter so there’s more food come.” She spoke to Ron directly, as he seemed bewildered by the size. “Don’t pick at it, it’s all edible.” She turned to Harry. “Hello. You look smart. Did you come from the office?”

“I’ve got the week off actually. Just thought I would make an effort for you.” He looked down at the plate of the pasta. “This looks delicious, thank you.”

-

The fire was crackly softly, lighting the room in a warm glow. The trio sat on the worn leather sofa placed directly in front of the hearth. Ron, dozing sweetly on Hermione’s shoulder, fingers loosely gripping his near empty glass of fire whiskey. Hermione, one hand resting on Ron’s knee, her body shifted to face Harry beside her. Harry, legs tucked into him, leaning against the round arm.

“Why did you take the week off? Something up at work?” She spoke softly, genuine concern in her eyes. “It’s not like you to take your holiday.”

Harry's shoulders tensed, nostrils flaring, and the anger boiled up. He had nearly forgotten all about the drama awaiting him. Noticing instantly, Hermione reached out to hold his hands in her own tenderly.

“Oh, Harry, what’s wrong?”

“You remember that Azkaban Rehabilitation program you so desperately pushed for.” He couldn’t mask the venom in his voice as he spoke.

She nodded, squeezing his hands. “What’s happened? Oh, I’m so sorry Harry.”

Softer this time, he spoke “No. Don’t apologise Hermione. It was a brilliant idea. You’ve helped many people. But Dean.... that bastard.” The disdain returning to his tone. “He’s only gone and paired me with Draco Fucking Malfoy. He’ll kill me. How did he even qualify for the stupid-“ his voice grew louder and stopped short when he heard Ron shuffle and mutter drearily. He glanced at his sleeping friend and continued in a hush voice. “He must have bribed someone or something. Right?”

Hermione winced, withdrawing her hands. “Well Harry.... there’s a special sector he went through. Extensive therapy. I think he’s changed a lot since you last saw him.”

“Oh, what the fuck do you know!”

Ron jolted awake, whimpering about spiders. He blinked heavily at the pair and breathed out deeply. “I think I shall go to bed. Harry, mate, good to see you.” Harry nodded in response, fist gripped tightly in bubbling rage.

Hermione watched Ron as he left the room and stumbled up the stairs. She stood and started clearing up the glasses with her wand, purposefully turning her back to Harry.

“He apologised. Sincerely. For everything he ever did to me. For the hateful words. And, even though it doesn’t take it back, or stop the nightmares.... I forgave him. Really, you should give him a chance.” Her voice thick and wet with tears. “I think it might help you to speak to him. He wants to apologise to you as well.”

He scoffed and finished his drink, floating the empty glass over to where the others were stacked. “And what if it’s all fake. An act. Just to spring the killing curse on me.” He stood, straightening his shirt. “He’s never done a single good thing in his entire life, he’s practically Voldemor-“

He was cut off as Hermione slammed the glass onto the table, shattering it into pieces. He winced at the sound. “Voldemort is gone, Harry. People change. You’re so obsessed with what happened that you’ll never grow from it. Nobody else is living in the past.” She breathed deeply, looking at the mess, and waved the shards back into place. “I think you should see one of our psychiatrists at the Ministry. Some specialise in PTSD.”

“I don’t have PTSD, don’t be stupid.”

“We were kids. We saw our friends and family die. You had this ridiculous pressure to save the bloody world. Harry, you willingly gave yourself up to DIE. Please.... Ron and I have been seeing Dr. Watson, separately. My nightmares... they’re less and less each month. Please, think about it.”

Harry apparated from the room without a response.

****

****

****

****


	4. Textual Relations

_*PING*_

_*PING* *PING*_

The notifications didn’t wake him, for he hadn’t been able to sleep yet. He sat up in and grabbed the phone from his desk. The screen came on, full brightness, causing him to shrink away and curse. He turned the bedside lamp on, put on his glasses, then waited for his eyes to adjust. Finally, he unlocked his phone with his thumb to read the messages.

**New Message from** **_044714613356_ ** **:**

**_01:13 Hey Harry, it’s Darren from the other night. Hope it wasn’t too forward of me to put your number in my phone. You did tell me it…. I had fun so I didn’t want to wait for you to text first._ **

**New Message from** **_044714613356_ ** **:**

**_01:14 Unless you were purposely not texting me_ **

**New Message from** **_044714613356_ ** **:**

**_01:14 Then Ignore This_ **

****

Harry twiddled his thumbs, mobile supported in both palms. His eyes darted across the screen back and forth over those words, mind mulling over what to say. How on earth could he explain to this Darren person that he wasn’t really who he thought he was? How could he politely put it that his nose was different, or that he desperately needed glasses for his eyes that weren’t actually brown? If it was a wizard, then the conversation would almost be easy. But Darren was a muggle. Probably a very attractive and nice muggle, but a muggle nonetheless. It was almost ironic that he didn’t know what Harry truly looked like, seeing as Harry could barely remember his face. Blonde, pale, and toned if his memory served him well. But most of his conquests looked like that. He had a type. His thumbs tapped away at the screen

**_01:25 I did want to text you._ **

**DELIVERED**

**_01:25 It’s a little complicated._ **

**DELIVERED**

He placed his phone face down on the bed next to him and stood, walking away from it as if the distance would help him decided what to say. It pinged almost immediately, then once more. He turned back to look at it, screen softly illuminating the bedsheets underneath in the darkness of his room. He lunged back to read the messages, hastily picking up the phone.

**New Message from Darren:**

**_01.26 So you’re already seeing someone? Great…._ **

**New Message from Darren:**

**_01.26 Well I’m not interested in getting involved with a spoken for man. Goodbye._ **

Harry groaned, lightly chucking his phone back on the bed. Slumping, he sat and put his head in his hands, tugging on his hair. He let out a long sigh, thinking for a moment. Blindly, he patted the bed for his phone, side eyeing it when his fingers found the warm metal.

**_Harry: 01.39 No. I am very very single. I wouldn’t cheat on anyone, that’s not me at all_ **

He watched, holding his breath, as three dots popped up and waved as the stranger on the other side typed. They dropped, followed by nothing for a moment. Then the dots returned. His phone pinged as a message appeared.

**_Darren: 01.43 Still pretending you’re straight then? Even less interested if that’s the case. I’m not a dirty little secret_ **

Harry winced as he read, face flushed. He locked his phone and slid it under his pillow, laying down for the night. Drunk Harry clearly liked being treated poorly, he thought to himself as he tried desperately to sleep, if this was how Darren texted, he can’t have been very nice to talk to. If they even spoke at all, around all the … not talking they did that night. And he certainly wasn’t pretending to be straight. He just wasn’t all that keen on admitting that he… wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t anyone’s business how he identified or felt about himself. And he absolutely did not have anything to prove to anyone, let alone pretty blondes with soft skin and long legs. Was he even pretty, this Darren? He must have been a little bit. Surely. His skin _was_ soft, that much Harry remembered. Endless legs too. Smelled like flowers, had silky hair and delicate lips.

“Dammit!” He shouted to the ceiling, sitting up and aggressively grabbing his phone. He pressed hard at the screen, typing out a message forcefully.

**_Harry: 02.01 Not that it’s ANY of your business but I have been coming to terms with my bedroom preferences and I am not ready to make them public knowledge thank you very much_ **

The dots appeared, taunting him.

_**Darren: 02.02 BEDROOM PREFERENCE!?** _

He rolled his eyes and waited for the second message that was bound to come. Dots wiggling.

**_Darren: 02.03 That’s a new one. Just say you’re gay and get on with life. You certainly know how to suck cock like a gay man. Natural talent like that is wasted on a heterosexual._ **

Harry’s jaw dropped as he read the message, eyes widening. His face filled with blood as his cheeks reddened. He was shocked at the crudeness of the text, so vulgar out of nowhere. He shifted uncomfortably where he sat, the waistband on his boxers feeling too tight.

**_Harry: 02.05 Clearly you remember much more of that night than I do._ **

He chose he next words carefully, unsure if he should really send them

**_Harry: 02.07 I haven’t actually been with a man while sober. I don’t really know what it’s like_ **

He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch the next message appear. He heard it pop up after a moment.

**_Darren: 02.10 I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be harsh. I get it. I used to feel this way. You’ll feel a lot better when you stop being ashamed of it. What are you really afraid of?_ **

What _was_ he afraid of? He stared down the glowing screen, eyes going in and out of focus, eyelids drooping slightly. People looked up to him, respected him. Even those he didn’t get on with liked him a little. His enemies were everyone’s enemies. He was born and raised just to save the world; he couldn’t be anyone else. He had been that perfect Chosen One for so long. Anything outside of his destiny felt like a betrayal to the parents that died protecting him. He was expected to settle down and have kids, that was what everyone did. He sighed, finding the words.

**_Harry: 02.18 I guess I’ve always been expected to be a certain person, you know. Everyone around me had this ideal version of me that I needed to be. And people have made sacrifices for me to be where I am today. Big sacrifices. And anything other than what I’m meant to be feels like I’m betraying those people, betraying what I stand for._ **

The response came almost immediately, just as Harry was slipping into slumber.

**_Darren: 02.19 You’re meant to be yourself, Harry. Only you know who that is._ **


End file.
